


Forbidden Fruit

by Padfoots_Pawprint



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Berries, Fluff, M/M, Picnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23256004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padfoots_Pawprint/pseuds/Padfoots_Pawprint
Summary: Leave it to Aziraphale to bring one of the most disgustingly bitter fruits on the face of the planet to a picnic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Forbidden Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my stint with black currant yogurt, which I wish I had enjoyed but really didn't. Like, REALLY didn't.

“Black currant should have _stayed_ banned.”

The thought seemed incredibly distasteful to Aziraphale, if the twisted expression on his face was any indicator. “Come now, Crowley, it’s divine.”

“It’s disgusting.”

Aziraphale turned his spoon thoughtfully in his yogurt jar, which was filled with a lavender coloured treat that he was absolutely enjoying, and that Crowley found so profoundly disgusting. “Considering that it was called “The Forbidden Fruit” for quite a long time, I’m surprised that you don’t like it.”

“And I’m surprised that _you_ do.” Crowley wrinkled his nose from the other side of the picnic blanket they were sitting on. There was very little food he deigned to put into his corporeal body. Any food that he did consume was consumed so quickly that he was always left with an extra hour of waiting for his companion to finish. Besides, he much preferred watching Aziraphale eat away across from him, shamelessly enjoying and appreciating what he’d always deemed “Earthly Delights”. Best not to start eating at all if that was the case. Aziraphale took _forever_.

“Think of the health benefits?”

“Aziraphale, you are an _angel._ You gain absolutely no health benefits. Health benefits are for humans.”

“Yes, well, it’s nice thinking about how Good black currant can be for the body. It’s bitter, true, but there’s a rich earthiness to it.”

“If I wanted to taste dirt, I would kiss a potted plant,” complained Crowley. “‘Sides, if anything bitter is going to be in my mouth, it’s going to be alcohol, angel, and lots of it.” Crowley took a long, exaggerated gulp from his wine glass. Aziraphale was not markedly impressed by it - had seen it too many times to take it with much seriousness - and proceeded to scoop another spoonful of yogurt.

Aziraphale held the spoon out to Crowley like an offering. “Just try it, dear.”

“I _have_ tried it. Got a bloody drink named after me an’ everything, and then they put _that_ into it. But do I like it? No. Of all the food that we latched onto here, that berry has got to be one of the worst of it. Britain should have outlawed it like America did.”

“Oh, don’t say that. So many other delicious things have been made with it that you don’t hate.”

“Like?”

“There’s a lovely black currant wine you tried once that I remember you enjoying.”

The memory bubbled up. “You can make alcohol out of anything. That doesn’t count,” said Crowley sourly, looking down at the vintage wine sitting in his glass as if it was the fault of the grapes that Englishmen had taken to black currant centuries ago.

“It most certainly counts,” countered Aziraphale primly, “because you drank more than two bottles that night.”

“For your information, I also miracled myself sober and promptly switched to a more enjoyable bottle. So no, it does _not_ count.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale take another spoonful of yogurt, the angel humming with delight. “True Englishman, you are,” he said absently as the angel pulled the spoon out of his mouth slowly. Aziraphale licked his lips that Crowley could swear was purposeful. “The Brits love this stuff. Can’t stand it, me.”

“Very difficult to find a good berry, I’m sure,” said Aziraphale, happy to feed into his friend’s ramblings.

“It is! Do you know how amazed I was that the humans decided that bananas were berries? Bananas! I couldn’t even believe it when I found out. It was so crazy! It was-, was-”

“Bananas?” offered Aziraphale helpfully, and Crowley nodded, emphatic and somewhat enthused that Aziraphale had gotten the term correct.

“And blackberries. Angel, blackberries aren’t even berries.” Crowley lay on the picnic blanket with his now empty glass of wine, which Aziraphale took from his hands and placed back into the basket. “Ridiculous,” he said to the white, fluffy clouds floating overhead. “Absolutely ridiculous.” A hand pulled the hair from Crowley’s face, lifted the glasses off his nose and tucked them into the basket as well. He tilted his head a little farther back to see Aziraphale smiling over him. “What’re you looking so pleased about?”

“Nothing at all.” A lie if Crowley had ever heard one. He continued to smile down innocently at him, listening to his ranting with the most self-indulgent expression on his face. When questioned about it again after about fifteen minutes, he said, “Just feeling an ambient level of pleased at the moment. Nothing specific at the core.”

“Nothing?” said Crowley aloud, which really meant, “Lie to my face again. I dare you.” 

He chuckled before leaning down and pressing a delicate kiss to Crowley’s mouth. “Alright then, serpent,” said Aziraphale, “I’m very pleased with you, with being with you.” He punctuated his sentence with another kiss, and Crowley’s lips tingled a little. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“ _Absssolutely_ .” He let the word slither out, lying boneless on the blanket and thanking his unusually lucky stars that he had allowed Aziraphale to choose a plot of land. It was miraculously smooth and without bumps, perfect for the types of activities Crowley wanted to partake in with his angel. Crowley was, quite suddenly, half out of his mind with happiness with the thought. With the warmth of his angel, with the _taste_ of him. “I-” He licked his lips and shuddered, all that bliss draining out of him as he glared up at Aziraphale with half-hearted betrayal. “You-”

“Me?” The angel looked down at him with the same innocent expression as before, only it wasn’t, the sly bastard, innocent at all. In fact, the very calculated look on Aziraphale’s face reminded Crowley too much of his friend’s prestidigitation acts. It was playfully knowing, eager for the recipient to catch on and figure out just what was missing. Aziraphale had a terrible poker face and would have lost far more games of poker if he was not, in fact, an angel.

“How could you? I trusted you!”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” denied Aziraphale.

“Yes, very _demonic_ of you, Aziraphale, using love to make me taste that absolute garbage berry.”

“And how very _angelic_ of you, Crowley, using love to persuade me into speaking the truth.”

“Tricking me in broad daylight.” Crowley huffed. “I’m almost proud of you.”

At that, Aziraphale blushed a very pretty shade of pink. “Oh, that’s good.”

“All well and Good to you, maybe.” To be tempted by Aziraphale’s ocean eyes and plump lips. Someone help him, he was too smitten for this. He’d have to do some right Evil in order to make up for it. (Well, he didn’t _have_ to, especially not evil with a capital ‘E’, but it wouldn’t feel right to just let Aziraphale kiss him and not do something just a little bit mischievous to the next humans they came across.) “I’ll be sure to get you back for that.”

“I’d like to see you try.” They both froze at the reflexive challenge in Aziraphale’s words, their eyes locked. Crowley very slowly turned on to his stomach and pushed himself up so that he was leaning far into Aziraphale’s space. Perhaps it was the luck of the Devil that kept Aziraphale so still, and Crowley could not help but take advantage of finally having the upperhand. “Now now, dear,” he stammered, “that’s not quite what I meant.”

“Oh angel,” said Crowley, relishing in the shaking of Aziraphale’s voice, “my sweet, sweet angel.” He snapped his fingers and the yogurt cup was back in the basket as well. Aziraphale didn’t even flinch. “If you thought for one moment that the taste of that berry would dissuade me from kissing you in a public place, you were very mistaken.” 

“How very careless of me.” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted downwards for only a fraction of a moment. “I was rather hoping you’d feed me the rest of it.”

“If you think I’m letting it get anywhere near me, you’re crazy. But if you’d rather feed _me_ the rest of it from your mouth, I’m sure we could come to an agreement.” Crowley wiggled his eyebrows, going for suggestive but becoming more comical than anything. Not that he minded. 

Aziraphale chuckled, sort of breathlessly amused by the whole thing. “You’re a master of seduction,” he said, “but surely you know that _that_ didn’t sound nearly as appealing as you made it?”

“Saw it in a movie once.” Crowley allowed himself to flop into Aziraphale’s lap. Even with ankles being dug into his chest, Crowley’s arms curled around the lovely round shape of his angel and he let out a contented sigh. Almost immediately, he was being accommodated, legs uncrossing themselves to allow him into Aziraphale’s space all the more.

“Well, the attempt to woo me is appreciated, I suppose.”

“We both know you’ve been well and proper wooed for centuries, angel, let’s not play coy.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” promised Aziraphale, “about the books or chocolates or flowers or the trips out of town or the millions of restaurants and shows we’ve been to.” He dragged a well-manicured hand through Crowley’s short hair. “Make no mistake, my dear. I know _just_ how special you’ve been treating me, and while I would love to indulge you during this lovely picnic, I was rather hoping that I would be able to finish eating while the food you’ve brought is still fresh first.”

The thought of any food going bad while it was in front of Aziraphale sounded like the best joke Crowley had heard in the last two days. “Oh, like you would dare let even a single grape go bad.”

“I might if you distracted me.” Aziraphale removed his hands from Crowley’s hair and reached for his yogurt again. 

“You? Distracted by little old me?” Crowley smirked into the soft round of Aziraphale’s stomach before rolling off of his companion, deciding to retire from the affectionate theatrics for a little to simply enjoy the moment. He could always allow himself to relax in Aziraphale’s presence. Unlike the angel, Crowley rather enjoyed being distracted by the events at hand, and he found the way Aziraphale tended to eat was one of the most pleasantly distracting things he had ever laid eyes on. From the expression of pure bliss on his face to the delightfully pleased noises he made while he was indulging in something, it was near better than any show he had ever seen.

Indulging. Now _that_ was a word they’d not given much weight to in recent years. Crowley had once attempted to call their meetings _indulgences_ , enjoyable and secret and frowned upon by their colleagues, which Aziraphale had taken great offence to. “I’ll not have you thinking of these… _excursions_ ,” Aziraphale had said, “like they are false sins you can just pay off the church to absolve.” He’d said it with the same venom that Crowley would echo when he spat the word “ _fraternizing_ ” centuries later. 

Which had meant, of course, that Aziraphale saw nothing sinful in meeting with his oldest adversary turned oldest friend. Perhaps there _was_ nothing different. Perhaps your oldest friend _could_ very well be your adversary, your companion, someone who thwarted your wiles and could be tempted to dinner on the same day. That was certainly what Aziraphale was to Crowley, and the demon strongly suspected that the feeling was mutual. The “perhaps”-ness of it all had Crowley feeling some type of way, and Crowley allowed the thoughts to turn pleasantly in his head for a moment before shelving it and continuing to lounge around on the picnic blanket in a state of blissful emptiness. It was too lovely a day to worry about implications and being serious. He much preferred to lay near and soak in the notion that he was a free occult being able to lay wherever he pleased with whichever creature on Her green Earth that he liked. And if that creature was indeed an ethereal being with a taste for the most disgusting berry on the face of this planet, well, at least Crowley would always be able to pick him out.


End file.
